


I come with knives.

by songofproserpine



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood Kink, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, Other, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 03:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofproserpine/pseuds/songofproserpine
Summary: Tumblr anon expressed an interest in sub!John, and I figured I'd give it a go.---“Ask me to stay,” you say, and you flick the rope against his leg. “Beg me not to leave.”His mouth thins out, then slides up one side into a sickle, wicked smile. “Stay with me,” he says, his voice soft, almost sweet, as sincere as sin. “Please.”Your eyes never leave John’s gaze as your fingers move, nimble and merciless. This time when you tie the knot, pulling it so that the skin around his ankle flushes pink and red, you don’t need to ask if it’s good enough. John’s flinch and muted sigh is both answer enough and music to your ears.





	I come with knives.

You cinch the knot and look up at John. “Tight enough?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

John shakes his head, and the movement shifts the ropes that are already angled around his shoulders and over the back of his neck. “Tighter,” he insists, but there is a softness in the word, like a throat bared.

You smile and quickly undo the knot. “You know,” you say, dragging the ends of the rope around his calf in a lazy tease, “I should keep these loose. Make it easier for you to escape.”

John scowls. “Why?”

“It would be proof of a promise kept,” you say slowly, like a teacher scolding a willful child. “It would be proof you  _wanted_ to stay here, that you were willing to sit still and do as you’re told. If I tie you up, then I’m the one  _keeping_ you here. If I don’t, then you’d be keeping yourself. Understand?”

“You’re thinking too much,” he says, but you can see the gleam in his eye, and you spy the sharpness of his smile, and you know he does not mind what sort of thoughts race through your head, nor how many.

You sit back on your heels and stare up at him. “Do you want me to stop?” you ask, one eyebrow arching high. “Do you want me to leave you here, half bound to a chair, alone?”

John eyes you in silence, wondering whether this is a challenge or a threat. “No,” he says at last.

“Ask me to stay,” you say, and you flick the rope against his leg. “Beg me not to leave.”

His mouth thins out, then slides up one side into a sickle, wicked smile. “Stay with me,” he says, his voice soft, almost sweet, as sincere as sin. “Please.”

Your eyes never leave John’s gaze as your fingers move, nimble and merciless. This time when you tie the knot, pulling it so that the skin around his ankle flushes pink and red, you don’t need to ask if it’s good enough. John’s flinch and muted sigh is both answer enough and music to your ears.

Slowly, without taking your eyes from his, you push yourself off your knees and lean over him, one hand curling around the back of his head. Your other hand slips down his throat, and you curl your fingers around his neck, pressing the heel of your hand around his Adam’s apple. “What’s your signal?” you ask. “A word, or colors?”

In the past, John has preferred the color method to a safe word. It’s a simple code to remember: Red for stop, yellow for take it slow, and green for go, fully, freely. You half expect him to use it again this time–but he takes you by surprise.

“A word,” he says, his eyes on your mouth. “Gift.”

You tilt your head, thoughtful. “That’s a funny one,” you say as you settle onto his lap, straddling him.

John’s chest swells as he takes a quick breath. His eyes dart around your face, drinking you in as if you are water and his throat burns for thirst. “So are you,” he says, flashing a half smile again. It fades fast as his expression quickly settles into a look of pure, open lust. He is eager, exactly as you like him–but you prefer him  _needy_.

So you make him wait.

Gently stroking his throat with your fingers, you slide your fingers through his hair just hard enough so he can feel it in his scalp. “Hark whose talking,” you say, scolding him gently.

Before John can reply, you slowly drag yourself up and down his lap, and the friction of your jeans sliding over his bare skin is enough to make him squirm. You keep at it, grinding against him in a mercilessly slow pace, until he lets out a low, rough moan.

Oh, how you love that sound. You laugh with a kindness as sharp as the knife in your back pocket. “That’s it, sweetheart,” you croon, leaning in so that your lips slide over his. It’s not quite a kiss, not yet–it’s the threat of one, a threat you intend to keep. “Lemme hear you, nice and loud.”

As you quicken your pace, you reach down to take hold of John’s cock (”Hard already? Eager boy”) and give it a tight squeeze. You stroke him in time with the movement of your hips, and soon the chair is rocking beneath you, its legs sliding against the hardwood floor.

As you build momentum, John moans once again, louder this time. His head tilts back, straining the rope that you’ve looped around it, sliding the knots across his skin. No matter where he turns his head, there are knots laying in wait, ready to press and slip and scratch at him. Just as he wanted. Just as he asked you to do.

You pass your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the pearly pre-cum over your finger. John whines, pathetic and broken, as bring your thumb up to his lips.

“Is this for me?” you ask, tracing his lips with your thumb. You watch as he freezes for just a moment, struggling with the impulse to press his mouth shut and wanting to open it wider.

Still struggling, both with his decision and the knots that slide against his skin, John nods.

“Say it,” you hiss, pushing your thumb into his mouth. You press it against his tongue. “Say it.”

“Yes,” he whispers, and he closes his mouth around your thumb, scraping it with his teeth, lathing it with his tongue.

You smile at him, as wicked as sin, as loving as a kiss. His mouth is a paradise you would gladly die in. His lips are gates through which tongue and breath and the cold bite of a knife will pass, as they have passed before, replacing his ocean of pain with a river of pleasure that you two will cross together, together.

You pull your thumb out of John’s mouth, laughing quietly at the little wet  _pop_ it makes. “You’ve always been in my power,” you say, reaching behind you to pull the knife from your pocket. It’s a little thing, elegant and stylish. John gave it to you as a gift, and you can think of no better use for it than this moment. How lovely it would be to make him cry  _Gift_ with your own.

John’s eyes open wide at the sight of your knife. He wets his lips and he rolls his hips up with a moan, eager, demanding, impatient, but forced to wait.

“You’ve always been helpless for me,” you say, sliding the knife gently, so gently, across his collar bone, leaving a faint red scrape behind.

His chest swells and dips with his rapid breaths, as if his lungs can’t quite catch up with the pounding of his heart. “Yes,” he whispers, nodding.

“You will suffer for me, because of me–as I have suffered for you. Because of you.”

“Yes.  _Yes.”_ He says the word in a rush; it stumbles over his tongue and out his mouth, all knotted breath and desperation.

Gently, lovingly–for that is the only way to hurt someone you love–you slide the knife up John’s throat, leaving a thin red ribbon of blood behind. He arches up and groans as you take hold of the knife in both hands and fit it between his lips like a gag.

“Bite down,” you tell him, and he does, he does.

John shows you his teeth, with your knife, his gift, caught in between. His eyes, pale and blue and loving, wild with need and fury, never leave your face, and it is your turn to gaze at him now as if he is water and you are choking with thirst.

Your blood sings in your veins as you take hold of the ropes angled around John’s neck and slide them forward and back, searing him, burning. He bites down harder on the knife and arches up, desperate to either escape or create more friction. Whichever it is, you cannot help but smile.

“I love you,” you say, trailing your hands down his chest. You dig your nails into his skin hard enough to bid his blood to burn beneath the surface, and the pale trail of your scrapes soon flushes a deep, rosy pink. “I do this because I love you. I will  _only_ do this because I love you. This is a gift–your gift, from me. Do you understand?”

John nods, teeth still bared. He does not need to say yes–the word is burning in his gaze, the word, the plea of it, the softness and the burning, bitter  _need_ , is visible in every inch of him.

You lower your eyes down to his lap and smile. Slowly, without a word, you scratch your way down his abdomen, down over the dark trail of hair, and take his cock in hand once again. John’s eyes flutter shut and he whimpers– _whimpers_ –at your touch, a sound so soft and sweet that you cannot help but sigh to hear it. Just as you cannot help yourself from dragging John over and over again to the edge, making him moan and beg and bite down hard enough for blood to spill over his lips and down his chin, staining his beard. Just as you cannot help but laugh and smile at him, crooning softly as he stares helplessly at you. Just as you cannot help but tell him again and again, with your teeth at his throat and your nails sticky with his blood, that you love him, you  _love_ him, you  _do_.

You can never quite help yourself where John’s concerned. You become a whole new thing before him,  _for_ him–a thing sincere and wicked, a creature capable of a love that is armed to the teeth with a vicious tenderness. And John loves you for it, yes–he needs you for this, needs you,  _wants_ you like water, like breathing, and  _that_  is the best gift of all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i just realized that out of all the fics i've written so far, john's the only one to not have anything explicit written for him. hah.


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